Longing

I am intimately familiar with the feeling called longing

Intense, sharp, caustic need

the kind that chews a hole inside your chest

like a shot of novocain, a burn and a sting

I only ever longed for freedom

burning my hands over a steaming pot

the future stretching out before me

strangled by the sameness and monotony

longing like bile in my throat

gagging, choking, my stomach in knots

fight or flight, but i could do neither

twelve years old and living in my own coffin

need is dangerous

if you acknowledge it, it demands to be satisfied

and when you can’t deliver

longing will tear.you.apart.

with sharp, curved claws

longing tore it’s way through my lungs

i stopped breathing for 6 years

those talons tore divots in my baby skin

I chased after freedom even as my lips were turning blue

flat on my belly, crawling with my fingernails

this longing is brutal

it will kill you before it will be ignored

every year i long for Fall

every fall i’d turn one year closer to freedom

it was fall when I broke away and started running

fall is a clean cold slate against fevered skin

the longing for freedom is part of being human

it’s right beneath your skin

a hungry monster you will never escape

I’d advise you to embrace it before it eats you alive

(originally published on my Tumblr)

My Journey: An Update

I have been neglecting my blog.

But I promise, the reasons are mostly good. I have been getting better. So much better. The suffocating blanket of uncertainty has almost completely disappeared. So many of my fears have been replaced with confidence and peace. I don’t feel so raw all the time anymore. I don’t always feel the need to pour my emotions out on “paper” to get them out of my system. I think I know who I am now. As an individual. And most days that means I feel peaceful, and happy.

None of things happened over night. And I’m sure I’ll change and have new questions all over again. But for once, I am not afraid of the future, because I finally trust myself to navigate it with authenticity. If I change, I change, and that’s okay. Because human beings are fluid. We are meant to change and grow, and rejecting that fact is unhealthy. P/QF folks will tell you that there’s a solid, biblical answer for every question, and if you don’t get it you need to try harder. But that kind of mindset removes us from our consciences, and from the opportunity to change and grow, which is what makes us human to begin with.

Letting go of belief in “right answers” is scary.
Letting go of the walls that you were always told would protect you is terrifying.
Letting go of the personality pajamas your parents swaddled you in at birth leaves you feeling naked and without identity.
Waking up in your twenties with no sense of self seems unbearable.

But I let go. And I started from scratch. And I trusted my conscience, and as cheesy as it sounds, I trusted my heart. It’s been over 2 years now, of slowly putting myself together, piece by piece. This is not the end of my journey. But I am happy to say that I know who I am today. I know what I want today. And that is more than enough for me.

I would love to talk more about my journey. I know how helpful it was to hear stories like mine when I was first beginning my journey. The tips and tricks and encouragements of others were invaluable to me. Please feel free to email me, or leave a comment about what you need to hear about. What will help you on your journey? If I get any responses I will write on those subjects.

I Do Not Belong To You

I am a teenager. He is a stranger waiting next to me for the train. When he calls me “sexy” and tells me to smile, I blush as red as his baseball cap. “aww are you blushing, baby?” My stomach churns. I do not want his attention, but I cannot say no. I smile for him, hoping I look more bashful than scared. On the train I seek out a seat next to very large older woman and bite my lip to hold back the tears brought on by adrenaline and embarrassment.

My smile does not belong to me.

 You taught me this when you ordered me to smile for your friend who was over for dinner. I was 5. I didn’t like him, but you took me aside and told me to “smile and be nice” or I would have to sit alone in the other room.

I am 14 years old. He is my sparring partner in Martial Arts class. “I’m gonna punch you in the boob!” He laughs like it’s the funniest joke he ever heard. I am uncomfortable, but I don’t know what to say. He jabs at my right breast, like it’s a target, and pain blossoms across my chest. He laughs, his buddies laugh, and I laugh with them. I don’t want to be rude. “Do you need me to kiss it and make it better?” More laughter. I tell myself we’re all just kidding around, it’s just fine… everything is fine.

My body does not belong to me and I do not have the right to decide what I think is funny.

You taught me this when you let my cousin tickle me without my consent. I was 7 and he was 19. I screamed through the involuntary laughter and everybody just smiled and laughed along. When I finally got away I was angry. Hot tears sprung up in my eyes and shouted at him, at all of you, “I told you to stop!” You gripped my arm and pulled me aside. “Your cousin was just joking with you and you were very rude to him. Go apologize and give him a hug!”

I am 19. He is my sexually aggressive co-worker. He traps me against the wall and whispers explicit things to me, hot breath against my neck. Sometimes he sneaks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, purposely pressing his body against mine. He grows bolder each day, and he never listens when I insist that he leave me alone. I never tell anyone, just befriend an older man who works with us, and hide near him when I’m feeling afraid.

My sexuality belongs to the most powerful male-bodied person available.

You taught me this when you bought me a purity ring at age 16 and made me promise that I would never let anyone touch me until you gave me away to a man on my wedding day. And all the times you ordered my brother to protect me, instead of teaching me to defend myself.

You just wanted me to behave. You wanted me to obey the rules as children should. You didn’t known that children are just tiny adults. You couldn’t have foreseen that your words would shape the woman I would become. You never thought that I would carry the lessons meant for a five year old with me for the rest of my life.

But I know now. And if I ever have a child I will remember that she does not belong to me. I will never force her to talk to my dinner guest, because I do not own her voice, or her smile, or her body, or her heart.

Still Crying: The Opposite of What You Meant To Teach Me

This post is from an anoymous author. 
       

     Even when I wasn’t the child being spanked, I searched for a place of solitude where I could cry without being caught. Hearing my brother’s screams through the closed doors of my father’s study was more traumatizing than getting spanked myself.

      Now, 10 years later, if I even hear my dad start to get angry with one of my siblings I immediately find a way to take care of the situation before he does.  i just take over or yell at him for scaring a kids. I'm not scared of him for me. Just scared that the babies will be scared of him. I have to shield them from the cause of the fear that was embedded into my life.

Why did my brother have to get hurt so badly though? I knew he didn’t do anything wrong on purpose! Eventually, I ran out of excuses to hide. Now, I can’t cry. I just deal with it.

When I dragged the wooden spanking stick to one of my parents in total shame? Well, that was alright because I knew I had done something wrong. Did it matter what I had done? They knew better than me and loved me so obviously it was my fault. Now, I am a perfectionist. I am constantly told to “relax” and “it doesn’t have to be perfect…” But doesn’t it?

 For as long as I can remember, I have been able to wiggle my way out of trouble. Mostly by lying, sometimes barely manipulating the truth. You got spanked for lying, but it was better to risk getting caught in a lie than be punished no matter what the truth was. Now, it has taken years of struggling with my natural instinct to lie. Only my hard work has made me the honest person I am.

The only fixed standard in my childhood was that whatever Dad says goes.  If I had any other ideas I had better not voice them. Now, I have to force myself to share my opinions no matter who I am talking to.

It has taken me years to overcome my struggles and will be many more before I am through with them. One thing I can say for sure, however, is that I have only learned the very opposite of what spanking was supposed to have “taught” me.

(Please show your support and leave comments for the authors if you can. Remember, this is an open ended series! Please consider writing something yourself, or sharing the project with your friends and followers. The guidelines are listed here, but feel free to write in whatever format is easiest for you.)

Still Crying: "Spanking Time"

This peice is from an anonymous author.

______________________________________________________________________


Its funny how a child can turn anything into a game. 
My brother and i wrote  a song called Spanking Time. 

We usually played a game called court; where the whole point was catching the evildoer in their crime and then punishing them. 

The most exciting part of playing "house" was being the mommy or daddy, because then you had the power to beat the "kids". My siblings and I came up with a game where you would take turns "spanking" each-other and whoever quit or cried first lost.

It's sickening that this was how we reacted. 

The feeling of power was so rare to us kids that we had to become the only source of power we knew to feel in control of our lives.

(Please show your support and leave comments for the authors if you can. Remember, this is an open ended series! Please consider writing something yourself, or sharing the project with your friends and followers. The guidelines are listed here, but feel free to write in whatever format is easiest for you.)

The Magical Third Strand

When I got married two and a half years ago, I had a lot of pre-conceived opinions. I knew marriage wasn’t going to be easy, but I was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were going to make it. My confidence came from the belief that my fiancé and I had a special secret weapon against the trials of marriage: we had God. God was the third strand that would keep our marriage together, no matter what. I believed that my marriage was inherently stronger than those of non-believers. After all, God gave us superior insight and patience. God had gifted us with stronger and more powerful feelings of commitment. God had promised us that our cord of three strands would not be easily broken. I knew that my marriage was better than your marriage because God was supernaturally holding us together.

Imagine my surprise when I faced reality for the first time. We had been married for about 6 months. I was deep in post-patriarchy depression and I cried myself to sleep almost every night. My husband and I prayed together every day, but still I could see the toll my struggles were taking our marriage. I didn’t know how to feel better, and he didn’t know how to help me. I often thought of how much better off he would be without me. As I began facing my childhood for the first time, I developed a visceral reaction to anything that felt restrictive to me. I remember the exact moment when I first realized the magnitude of my “till death do us part” commitment.

I was sitting on my bed in our tiny apartment folding clothes. I started to think about the rest of my life. I was 19, and already the biggest decisions of my life were behind me. I would be folding these same socks and underwear every week for the rest. Of. My. Life.  I suddenly felt trapped, claustrophobic in my own life. I had committed to this marriage before God, and now I couldn’t leave. Ever. My chest constricted and my breath came faster. “I can’t do this.” I thought. “I can’t do this.”  

I imagined packing my things and leaving right then. My heart swelled with hope at the idea of being truly free for the first time in my life. Those thoughts terrified me, and in that moment I felt betrayed by God. “You promised that I wouldn’t have to feel this way!” I prayed through the tears. “You promised you would hold us together!” I felt cold and naked as I realized that there was no supernatural power keeping me here in this apartment with this man. There was no safety net protecting our marriage. There was nothing but our own desires, and I didn’t even know what I wanted.

What first felt like betrayal, turned out to be the most freeing realization of my married life. I examined my heart and gave myself permission to think about what I wanted. I gave myself permission to pursue the things that made me happy. I made a lot of changes in my life, like going back to school and moving to a new state. The biggest breakthrough of all was realizing that I wanted to be with my spouse. He makes me laugh, his personality compliments mine. He believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. He does not “complete me,” but I cannot imagine my life without him. The life that I have is the life that I want.

The love we have for each other, and the commitment we made to each other is stronger and more profound than it has ever been. Many people question the strength and validity of our marriage because we are “unequally yoked” or too egalitarian. I used to do the same thing. The idea of stepping into a lifelong commitment is substantially less terrifying when you think you have a supernatural shield around you and your spouse. But how much more beautiful is a wedding where two flawed humans commit to one another, fully aware of the challenges they will face? How much more powerful is a marriage where two people stay together because they want to?

There is no magical third strand holding my marriage together, it’s just us. We promised each other that no matter what happens, we will never stop working on our marriage. We promised that no matter how our feelings change, we will never give up on our love. I mean it, and know that he does too. And that’s good enough for me.

Dear Diary: Body Images

I was browsing through my childhood diary again this week and I came across this gem. I drew this when  I was 11 years old. It is clear from the picture that my perception of beauty was already twisted. 

The red head with curly hair and a curvy frame was deemed "ugly" and the extremely thin girl with straight hair and giant lips is "almost prity." Imagine my horror as I grew up into a body similar to that of my "ugly" redheaded drawing.

Fundimentalist doctrine teaches that a woman's body is somthing to be ashamed of and hidden. It teaches that womanhood is synonymous with frailty and china-doll perfection. I believe that fundamentalist doctrine devastates a girl's ability to love and respect her body. 

I also found it ironic that the "ugly" one is wearing an apron. I mean if she's not attractive enough to get a man with her looks, she'd better be able to cook or she's basically worthless. Ugh.

Afraid of the dark

 A year ago, I wrote a post about how as a kid I was convinced that I was possessed by the devil. I talked about the very first moment that I became afraid.

One of my earliest memories is of playing hide-and-seek at Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer. I was lying in the dark under the bed with my face pressed down into the red shag carpet. Waiting. There were dusty shoe boxes and plastic-wrapped blankets stacked all around me. I felt like they were waiting too, for the sunlight, for someone to open them again. Like most children, I was patient only when it came to hiding games, and I was willing to lie there all night, if need be, for someone to find me. I put my hands over my eyes and pushed down on my eye balls. When I lifted the pressure, the space in front of me exploded with imaginary fireworks. I pressed down harder, and harder, until suddenly I thought that maybe I could see a set of eyes. They were big and round and silver and stared right back at me unblinking, like an owl. Completely forgetting the game, I wriggled out from under the bed and went charging down the hall into the kitchen.

“Gramma! When I hide under the bed, I can see an owl’s eyes looking at me!”

Grandma looked up from the dishes with concern on her face. Grandpa, who was sitting at the kitchen table while Grandma cleaned, ordered me to come and stand before him.

 “What did you see?”

“Owl Eyes!” I laughed. “Big round silver ones! Under the bed when I close my eyes!”

I don’t remember what he said next, but I remember my excitement went suddenly cold. Grandpa was not happy. He asked me lots of questions, and before long, Grandma dried off her hands and came to sit with us at the table. They laid their hands on my head and prayed. Grandpa rebuked Satan in the name of Jesus and Grandma whispered “yes Lord” under her breath again and again.

I used to look back on that day as the moment when Satan entered my body.

 

I am sometimes afraid that if I ever become a parent I wont know how to address situations like this. When someone talks about seeing things in the dark, my automatic thought is that it MUST be demons. (Which is ridiculous since I don’t believe in demons.)  But I get uncomfortable and nervous none the less. I was wondering what I would do if my hypothetical child came to me about seeing things in the dark. As I browsed the comments, I came across one from Shadowspring that brought a huge smile to my face.

“Horrifying. You poor princess. I just want to pick up that little girl that saw owl eyes and go rewrite that whole story.

Would I be smart enough to figure out exactly what you had experienced? Probably not, but we could've put treats out for the owl, gone to library for owl books (including Winnie the Pooh), made up a series of owl adventures and/or even had a field trip to the raptor center. That's the kind of grandma I want to be.

I bet your grandparents would cry if they knew that religious freak-out was the beginning of so much pain for you. At least, I hope they would.

Hugs, SS”

 

 As an agnostic, I no longer believe in dark, powerful demons that can harm and hurt you at will. I have no reason to be afraid for myself or my hypothetical children. Thanks, SS for the sweet comment. I know someday I'll think of you when my children come to me afraid of the dark. I know i will honestly be able to say "there is nothing to fear."

Dear Diary: Losing My Pure Heart

Context: When I was thirteen I fell really hard for the only boy I'd ever spent any time with. He was a friend of the family. We held hands twice before the adults caught on and shut it all down. I wrote this is my diary shortly after that incident.

Dear Diary,                                            August 18
Oh I feel so horrible! How could I do this? I've preached to my friends but I'm just a hypocrite. I'm so confused and ashamed. If I can't say "he's my first love" on my wedding day, why does it even matter how many there have been. I'm a used napkin now. I know God used this to teach me, but why did he have to steal the gift of a pure heart? Why did I let this happen? It's not fair. My life is a mess. I wish I had a different life. I wish God put me somewhere else. I wish i could stop wishing! I don't want to be a worldy girl. I hate them. I hate how they gossip. I hate thier flirty clothes. I hate thier cakey makeup and nail polish. I hate how they always seem so happy... I hate that I want to be one of them, and I hate how it shows.
-Sarah

Dear Diary: Fundamentalism Through the Eyes of a Child

I don't know about you, but sometimes I feel guilty for leaving fundamentalism  It's not logical obviously, but somewhere deep down I still have this built in self-doubt. "It wasn't that bad," I tell myself, "you're exaggerating " I think about the things I've written on my blog and wonder if maybe I've somehow made them all up. Maybe my memories are flawed, maybe I'm victimizing myself.

In one of these moments of self-doubt, I turned to my childhood journal for affirmation. What I found startled me even more than my memories. Every page is swimming with self-hatred. Half the journal entries read like a suicide note. It's horrifying.

Fundamentalism teaches children that they are sinners. It teaches them to deny themselves, despise their needs, sterilize their personality, and strangle their sexuality. It teaches girls that they are stupid, insignificant, and purposeless without a man. The things you believe about yourself during your formative years shape the way you think, feel, and behave for the rest of your life. Nothing can be more crippling than self-hatred.

To illustrate how deeply fundamentalism destroys a child's self-worth, I am considering publishing some of the entries from my childhood/teenage journals. This will not be a commentary on my family or the things that happened in my home. It will be a glimpse into the mind and heart of a little girl who believed she did not deserve to live. My hope would be that people will see the dangers of fundamentalist Christianity and think twice about the things they teach (or allow to be thought) to their children.

Would anyone find this helpful or interesting? Would you be interested in sharing bits from your childhood journal to add to the illustration?

UPDATE: Many people experienced similar self-hatred stemming from psychological abuse that was not necessarily religious in nature. I welcome journal entries from those children as well as they offer a clear example of how religious fundamentalism is a form of psychological abuse.

Probably Not

Do you remember when I couldn’t breathe? Probably not. But I do.

 I remember the sensation of weight on my chest, weight on my eyelids, weight on my heart. Expectations were heavy, Responsibilities were unrealistic, Burdens were unbearable. You thought I was strong, you thought I was fine. But it’s only because you never asked. Were you too caught up in your own pain to see mine? Was your baggage so binding that you did notice the bags you strapped to my back every day?

When I think about that life, about those days in the big brick house, I feel the air slip out of my lungs. My chest tightens, and I feel heavy. I know there were so many good times. So many hugs and smiles. Christmas cookies, and back scratches. I wish those memories were sharper, and clearer, and brighter. But when I look back, everything is covered in fog. Heavy fog.

Do you remember when I hated myself? Probably not. I never told you.

 Sometimes I wonder if you noticed the blood through my sleeve and chose not to speak up. It’s easier to believe you never saw. Was your pain so raw that you never noticed me crying myself to sleep? Would you have been surprised to find me dead at last, my arm submerged in a bathtub full of blood, just like I fantasized a thousand times?

You try to tell me how beautiful I am now. But the part of me that needed to hear that grew up and moved out a long time ago.

Do you remember the day I learned I was evil? Probably not. But I do.

 I remember your words, immortalized in the pages of my diary, came to life and stood before my eyes like living demons. Liar, untrustworthy, lazy, selfish. You taught me to ask God for forgiveness. You promised me that He would make me perfect. But he didn’t, and that’s when I knew I was evil, wrong, bad, lost. Were you proud of me? Of all the time I spent on my knees hating my own guts? Did you mistake my self-deprecation for humility? Or was this your desired result?

I already forgave you for the things you did, on accident or otherwise. I have taken responsibility for my life and my feelings. But the marks remain, like sunspots from the glare of your unrelenting righteousness.  I don’t want to blame you for the depression, for the years I spent swimming against the current, trying to break away from the darkness. I don’t want to hate you for the anxiety I’ve experienced over every small decision.

 But some day I’d like to hear you admit that you were wrong, and mean it. If that’s selfish of me, I’m sorry.

You remember the laughter and the warmth. You remember your ups and downs. Maybe you even have regrets. But do you remember my daily struggle to be perfect for you? Do you remember how I felt when I failed every single day? Probably not. But I do, and I wish with all my heart that I could forget.

Still Crying: Childhood Memories

(This post was originally published on my old blog: Enigma. I am re-posting it here to kick off the "Still Crying" project)

I couldn't stop crying. That was the problem. I was hot and cold all over, shaking and crying so hard i couldn't breathe. My skin was stinging, throbbing from the punishment that started almost an hour ago. My chest rose and fell in sharp jerky motions with each hickup, with each choking breath i tried to take. "control yourself" he said softly. His voice was sad, almost gentle. Almost.

He was so disappointed in me. I knew it, and now time was running out again. "Are you going to stop?" His grip tightened on my arm. Panic surged through my body, threatening more tears, I bit down on my lip. "God please make me stop! Help me control myself!" My mind screamed out to God, but nothing happened. No sense of calm. I should have expected this, God doesn't answer bad 6-year-olds. My little body shuddered and i started to sob again. Failure. Dad pulled me back over his knee and hit me three times with a wooden spoon. Pain blossomed up the back of my legs, my bottom. I cried. Loud. I was completely unable to control myself and i was dizzy from trying. Dad clamped his hand over my mouth. "silence" he hissed. Now he was frustrated as well as disappointed. What was wrong with me? Why was i too weak to just say "yes sir" and shut my mouth?

My foggy little mind understood why this was happening. I needed to learn to be silent when i was punished and Daddy was helping me. If i was allowed to be loud and mellow dramatic, the neighbors might get the wrong idea and tell the cops that we were being abused. The cops weren't Christians, and they wouldn't understand. They might get a judge to split up our family, and it would be all my fault. Daddy was just protecting our family. I mustered all my strength and stood very still. I sucked in as much air as i could, held my breath and waited. "are you going to control yourself now?" I nodded. Not too fast. "Do you understand why i had to spank you?" I'd forgotten actually, but I nodded anyway. I was running out of air. "Are you sorry?" I nodded again, waited. My vision began to go dark around the edges. I didn't dare draw a breath and ruin this long awaited silence. "Alright, come here" My father took me in his arms and I slowly let out my breath. It was over now. My body was still shaking but my lips were clamped shut. "What do you say Sarah?" he asked. Still no gentleness in his voice, but the anger was gone. I cautiously opened my mouth, terrified that my body would betray me again. I wiped the tears and snot away with the back of my hand and whispered: "Thank You"

Still Crying: The pain of corporal punishment doesn’t end when the spanking is over

Last year, in the early stages of my first blog: Enigma, I wrote a post about my experiences with being beaten (spanked) as a child. I wrote about “spanking” through the eyes of my childhood memories, and it really resonated with people. I have experienced years of painful repercussions because of my parent’s choice to “spank” me. I wonder if they would have made a different choice if they had been able to see the harm they would cause.

 One of the main reasons I blog is to try and make a difference for children who live like I once did. Statistics show that in the US, 90% of children are still “spanked” by their parents. I hope a young parent somewhere will read my words and think twice about heading down the path to corporal punishment.

This week I got a bright idea. I want to compile a collection of stories from victims of spanking. I want parents of young children to be able to see the issue from words that could someday belong to their child. People who want to participate can write a short post, about 100-300 words in regards to the issue of spanking, and I will post them one at a time into an album on my blog.

You can write your post in a number of different formats.

1.)   Letter to your parents: Write a letter to your parents. Tell them how their choice to spank you has harmed you. Tell them about how it affected you then, and how it continues to affect you now. (Feel free to include any information on alternatives to spanking that you have found effective.)

2.)   Letter to parents of young children: Write a cautionary letter to parents. Tell them why and how the practice of spanking affected (and continues to affect) you. (Feel free to include any information on alternatives to spanking that you have found effective.)

3.)   Letter to parents of young children (2): Write a letter explaining why you as a parent chose to stop spanking your children. Include your experiences and the factors that most made you change your mind. (Feel free to include any information on alternatives to spanking that you have found effective.)

4.)   Informational piece: Write a few paragraphs on why you believe spanking is damaging for children. Include any personal experience, or just some facts that made you come to your conclusion. (Feel free to include any information on alternatives to spanking that you have found effective.)

5.)   Creative: If you find it hard to express yourself with just words, please feel free to submit a more unique commentary. I will accept drawings, photos, videos, art work or poetry to this project as well. (Feel free to include any information on alternatives to spanking that you have found effective.)

You may include citations if you use any sources other than your own experience. You may also request to post anonymously if you chose, or if you feel your experiences are too personal to share under your real name. If you are a blogger, (and you give me permission,) I will link your submission back to your blog when I post it.

Whether you are contributing or not, please feel free to share this project on your blog/facebook/twitter/ etc.  I would like to get as many voices on this project as possible, so get the word out!!

Please email me with any questions. Submissions for the initial post are due by July 8th, however, I will continue to accept contributions indefinitely to add to the collection.

STEPS:

1.)   Email Sarah at whoiamwithoutyou1@gmail.com with any questions, and to let me know that you are interested in contributing.

2.)   SHARE this project with anyone you think might be interested. The more voices the better!

3.)   Write your 100-300 word post (or create your artistic submissions) and email it to me at whoiamwithoutyou1@gmail.com by July 8th
4.)   Keep an eye on my blog and Facebook for your post, and posts from others like you!

5.)   This project will remain open-ended, so feel free to share or submit AFTER July 8th

The God-box

Are you anything like me? Have you ever stood in front of the mirror, half horrified, and wondered who on earth is staring back at you? Who is that person with dark green eyes and lazy posture? What does she love?

                                                      What does she dream about?

                                                                                                           What does she want?

It used to be that I silenced those questions with the only answer I had ever learned: God. He was all I had been taught to want, all that I was allowed to need. I learned how to fold up my confusion, neatly like a napkin, and tuck it away in a box entitled: God. My hopes and dreams soon lived there too, stacked and dusty, next to ashes of my undeveloped identity. For 19 years they sat there, all the precious parts of me, ignored and forgotten. I walked around as a shell of a person, with the God-box strapped on my shoulders.

How did it happen? How did I come to the place where I was nothing but a shell? It started slowly.

At 8 years old I wanted to be a singer.

                    

Broadway.

My first dream.

“Theatre is not a safe place for a girl. The world is full of evil people. Trust in the Lord, he will show you how to use your talent for His glory!”

From that point on, I knew. God was the only acceptable answer to every question.

Emotions? God. 

Relationships? God.

Self worth? God.

Aspirations? God.

                                  God.

                                              God.

One day, the God-box got too heavy; so I threw it off. As it hit the ground, it shattered into a million pieces, taking part of me with it. I was told that the God-box was the perfect investment. I thought it would make me complete, I thought it would tell me who I was; I thought it would teach me to be happy. I had invested everything in the box, and it had failed me. I do not know who I am apart from God; all I know is that I should know.

And now here I am, standing in front of the mirror again, trying to guess at who is staring back at me. Every day I learn a little more, and the guilt of leaving the God-box lessens. Every day, as I pick through the rubble of my identity, I find old sparks of things that make me smile. I invite you to come along with me as I learn who I am. I am hoping to find that I am worth more than a title.

I am hoping to learn that I don’t belong in a God-box.

Teenage Identity Crisis

Every kid reaches that age where they struggle to discover who they really are. It is natural to the process of growing up. We stop defining ourselves by our family, and start defining ourselves by our friends. We naturally want to push the limits, push our bodies, and push the rules. During this time, our dreams and feelings are larger than life, and Oh-so-real. Parents often make the mistake of shrugging off the teenage years as a “faze” in which their kids are overcome by hormones. They often chuckle behind closed doors about the latest “teenage moment” and make their kids feel patronized and misunderstood. Parents long for the day that their teen’s hormone levels will normalize and they will have an adult on their hands instead of a large, moody child. Talking and listening to your teenager is the best thing you can do for them. As young adults, all we want is to be taken seriously, and to be heard. The teenage years are a beautiful, fragile time in which children become adults.

In a Fundamentalist Christian household, the teenage years can be a very different story. My parents didn’t want their daughters to grow up. Ever. We were trained to serve and submit from an early age. Pushing the limits was NEVER tolerated. Emotions were either irrelevant, or labeled as rebellion. As early as age 11, I remember having those “teenage moments” of huge emotion. Like every kid, I felt misunderstood and unjustly suppressed. Instead of being asked how I felt, or what was wrong, I was taught that my emotions were the manifestation of my sinful nature.

Tired and sore in all the wrong places? Laziness, Sloth.

Sad, depressed? = Bad Attitude, Selfishness.

Anger? = Rebellion.

Whenever I showed emotion, my mother would be disappointed. “this is isn’t the Sarah I know!” she would say. “who are you trying to imitate?” She wouldn’t let me see my friends anymore. Not even my cousins. Because I was “copying” them and not acting like the sweet happy daughter she knew. Instead of asking me what was wrong, or how I felt, she questioned my identity. As a teenager, I was already struggling to discover myself. She told me that she knew me better than anyone else. I tried so hard to be who she wanted me to be. How could she love someone who wasn’t her daughter anymore? I second guessed every word I said. I was paranoid that my motives were impure, that I was a copy cat, that I had no personality. I am still struggling to trust myself, all these years later.

 I remember at around age 13 I rolled my eyes at my dad. This was a BIG no-no. Sighing, stomping, folding my arms, and rolling my eyes were all deserving of a spanking. He grew angry and ordered me to come to him for a spanking. The injustice of it all welled up in my chest and I suddenly shouted out “No!” He was shocked. I was terrified. My legs took over and I took off running down the hall. I had never run from him before. He caught me, in what turned out to be one of my worst memories of my dad. He grabbed me by the arm and threw me into the bathroom. I tried to apologize, but he mashed my face into the corner. I screamed and I cried and I begged, and I hated myself for every “I’m sorry” and every “please stop.” I had hand prints on my arms and bruising on my face. The wooden spoon left bruises all over my newly developing body. And I hated myself. My mouth had betrayed me. If I hadn’t shouted that word this would never have happened. My body had betrayed me as well. If I hadn’t ran away, my punishment would not have been so severe.

 I hated myself for not having total control over my sin nature. I started cutting myself. I picked apart shavers with a pair of tweezers and saved the individual razor blades. It was freeing to exercise this type of control. It was like bleeding out all my emotions so they could not cause me problems throughout the day. It was freeing, it was addicting, it was frightening. My body learned to crave punishment, and I learned to oblige. When growth spurts made me so hungry it hurt, I agonize over every bite I ate. I would stare for hours in the mirror, begging for the courage to deny myself these gluttonous urges. I cut myself again and again. For every extra bite, for every surge of anger, for every misplaced tear.

My parents were happy with me. I was showing self control. I was being their sweet compliant daughter again. My mother was happy to have me back. She thought she knew me so well. Thought she had encouraged me right back into the girl I used to be. But every conversation was tailored to please. I had no idea who I was anymore. I was a bloody, torn mess, buried under a hard shell called Self Control.

 Parents, your children are going to change. Please let them. Don’t pretend to know them. Ask them questions, listen to them talk, and understand that their reality is just as important as your own. Don’t use the teenage identity crisis as an excuse to avoid meaningful conversation. You’re children will grow and change whether you want them to or not.

If you want to have any influence on the rest of their lives, embrace them for who they are.